


Welcome Home

by tiger_in_the_flightdeck



Series: Bump In The Night [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: ACD Holmes, BBC John, Ghost Sex, Ghosts, M/M, Reincarnation, ghostlock, ghostpoking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-22
Updated: 2014-03-22
Packaged: 2018-01-16 16:02:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 713
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1353397
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tiger_in_the_flightdeck/pseuds/tiger_in_the_flightdeck
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In a little cottage in Sussex, something has been waiting for John Watson to return home.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Welcome Home

**Author's Note:**

> The urge to call this Hump In The Night was alarming.

John scrubbed his hand over his grimy face and put away another of the old boxes he had found in the attic. The little Sussex cottage had once- a hundred or so years ago- belonged to some eccentric scientist. At least, that’s what John had concluded, going by the crates and trunks of beakers and burners.

_Watson_

Frowning, John looked up, then shook his head. “Stop wool gathering, old man.” he chuckled to himself, pulling another crate to his side. The musty scent of packed clothes wafted up to assault his nose as he withdrew the contents. Dressing gowns. Nearly a dozen, in a rainbow of faded colours. Deep, rich purple silks; red brocades; a cheerful blue and green tartan. John walked his fingers over each of the garments, admiring the stitching, and the weave before setting them carefully in a fresh box.

_Watson_

John’s head snapped up and he looked around. The attic was empty, but the dust was swirling with more force than was possible in the still air.

_Watson, you’re home_

Cold fingers slid up John’s back. At any other time, it would have been a ham handed metaphor to describe a creeping feeling, or a sense of dread. John shuddered, the feeling of actual icy hands twirling circles over his spine and slipping up into his hair.

_Why did you take so long to come?_

The voice switched between high and sweet, to low and rumbling, phantom breath stirring at his ear. “I j-just bought the place.” he stammered. There was a tugging at the back of his shirt, and John closed his eyes, certain he would be slammed through the window or against the wall.

Instead he was guided down to his back on the dusty floor. The hands braced on his chest, but all he could see was the movement of his shirt. “Oh, Christ…”

_Not quite_

"What the hell is happening?"

He had read ghost stories before. Everyone has. The accounts were always the same: Cold hands, phantom voices, a heavy weight on top of you. What none of the stories ever told was how the voice was rough and almost panting against his ear. Or how the cold hands slipped under his shirt to tweak and toy with his nipples. Or that the weight settled itself firmly on his lap, rolling against his growing prick. Or how it all felt alarmingly, dangerously, amazingly familiar.

_I’ve missed you_

His jeans and pants struck the far wall, his pocket change falling out to roll in all directions. An icy pair of lips closed around his length, and he slammed his head back with a cry. It should have had him wilting, but it just felt too damned good. “Fuck… _Fuck_!”

_I’ve missed how vocal you are_

Something tight began to close around him. To stretch and flex and envelop him slowly. His shirt bunched, and for the briefest flash, he saw long fingered hands gripping it before they faded.

_Oh god… Were you always this big?_

John braced his feet on the floor and rocked his hips up into the frigid tightness.

_Too long, Watson. Never stay away this long again_

Above him, the air shimmered and the beams of light gathered. Like a light shone through a prism, it bent and split, framing a figure. There were no features yet, but it was enough for John. He placed his hands where the hips would be, and thrust up hard.

"Living here now, Holmes. Every night." he insisted, but wasn’t in the frame of mind to wonder where the name had come from before it settled on his lips in a chant. His orgasm rolled through him, and cried out the name as he spilled into nothing.

With his eyes blurred and unfocused, he could see him. The spirit-  ghost, sprite, whatever, because he was the best damned shag he’d had in over a year- took on a nearly solid form. Glossy black hair was slicked back from a high forehead. Slanting eyes were fluttering and hooded. Full lips curled up in a blissful smile before he sagged down to John’s chest.

"What the hell was that?" he gasped out.

Lips found the spot behind his ear that always made him squirm and giggle.

_A welcome home._

**Author's Note:**

> I've been encouraged to write a few other fics featuring BBCJohn/ACDHolmes, and BBCSherlock/ACDWatson. And, um, other group variations. Keep an eye out for those in the future.


End file.
